The Savage Caves - Chapter 1
Chapter 1
The Duchy of Tenh, Current Year 575
Readying (Spring) 26, Waterday
Naull ran a hand through her short hair, letting out a long sigh as she realized what she had just done. Bits of weed, herb and dirt clung to her fingers and now they were streaking her thick black hair. She brushed her hands off on the front of her leather apron, then tried in vain to remove the dirt. She was picking at it, trying to keep her footing on the sopping wet ground - it had rained heavily the previous evening, which at the time she had enjoyed - when she noticed that she was being watched. She saw from the corner of her vision the movement of the figure. It was the young farmhand. He held his hay rake on his shoulder and was staring openly at her. She grasped for his name but couldn't remember it.
He was the son of a man her master hired to take care of the few livestock he owned. Pigs, mostly, though at one point he’d been paid for services with a pair of horses. They were nothing special but they were even tempered and Naull had taken a liking to one of them; she’d named the red-brown creature Erasmus. It seemed like an appropriate name for such a dignified, if skittish, creature. She only wished that she could more easily interact with the beast. Her gift could drive the normally docile horse into a proper frenzy and so she’d kept her distance. Her Master had warned her that her gift of magic was powerful; potent enough that even non-sensitive people and animals might sense it and react poorly. Not all animals, though, thankfully - the pigs were friendly enough to her.
The boy was likely a few years younger than she was, thin limbed and bushy haired. He was a bit scrawny, she thought, and seemed just as skittish as Erasmus. She had that effect on all types of beasts, she supposed with a chuckle. The boy must’ve mistook her laugh for something wicked and he moved quickly back into the small barn housing the animals. The sound of the door closing loud confirmed her suspicions that she’d frightened him. Naull rolled her eyes and finished cleaning her hair as best she could. Larktiss Dathiendt, her Master, had lectured her many times on taunting the village people who visited or worked the grounds - she’d thought none of them would be interesting enough to taunt but he hadn’t appreciated that answer.
She agreed and kept her interactions very minimal. In truth the boy was the first person she’d seen other than Larktiss in almost a month. At least close up. The tower was isolated and a few hours walk from Nurven, the hamlet closest to them - farmers, she believed. And she hadn’t been there in several years; the people seemed uncomfortable with Larktiss, though she didn’t think it was related to his own gift, which never seemed to unnerve or frighten people. Past that was Fairbye to the south east, followed by New Koratia another week’s journey to the south, the west, by the road. She’d never been but tales of travelers seeking Larktiss she’d eavesdropped on kept her somewhat entertained. Somewhat.
She’d even heard whispers of a Tournament of Mages in New Koratia but that was supposed to be another year away and Naull couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be in a year than away from here. Anywhere else honestly, she mused dryly.
The young woman gave up on her hair with a sigh. It would need to wait for a proper washing.
She bent down, picked up her knife and continued to move through the soupy garden in an attempt to save as many herbs as she could. The garden wasn’t lost but some of the herbs needed to be collected before they rotted into uselessness. She bundled what she could together with twine from her apron, wiping sweat from her brow and placed them in the front pack of her breeches. They were oversized and cumbersome but could carry everything she needed for harvesting the plants.
She mentally ran through the herbs as she collected.
Viper’s Bell, Anaraxi Root, Maiden Blush. She caught sight of a weed that Larktiss had once teasingly named “Naull’s Patience”; it was a thin, short scrubby thing. She wasn’t amused. She cut the weed and tossed it aside with the other waste.
Several hours of sweaty, muddy work later and Naull was drying off after a warm bath. The fourth level of the tower had been given to her when she’d arrived with Larktiss, a decade and a half ago. There were enough rooms on this level for four apprentices to live but she was the only one. It had changed over the years as her interests and maturity had but it was simple; enough space for a comfortable bed, a nightstand and writing desk with a too-large chair. A small fireplace which had been magically enchanted to billow no smoke lay at the eastern wall. As a child she’d been genuinely impressed with that enchantment and had spent years begging Larktiss to teach her the spell to create it. He relented and her attempt had promptly failed; the room had filled with black smoke and the place had stunk of soot for the next few months. But she’d perfected it eventually. There was a wardrobe for clothing, a small box upon which stood her only boots - now drying after a good cleaning. A tall bookshelf was the only other adornment. It stood higher than her slender five feet, twice as wide and was filled with an array of books on various subjects. Almost all of them were on topics magical in nature, though. Larktiss had insisted that “a studied mind is a keen one” and she’d greedily absorbed every bit of knowledge she could from the books she’d been given. Every year she’d ask for her Master to barter for more and more years than not he agreed. She knew he loved to read, so seeing his apprentice enjoy it brought him a little joy.
She was proud of her collection.
It felt genuinely as if it were hers. Her spellbook lay here as well, the leather bindings of finer quality and the pages more crisply aligned with the spine. Larktiss had insisted she make the book herself and it was a grueling but worthwhile process. She’d appreciated it more than she expected, though it wasn’t a task she’d like to repeat any time soon.
She stood, naked save for a towel wrapped around her small arm, and ran her fingers over the spines of those books. They were old and well-used; wear marks were obvious along the covers. She smiled, shifting to move a strand of hair behind her ear. Naull realized she didn’t have her earrings on and a moment of panic struck her.
Were they in the garden, have I lost them in the mud? She turned around quickly and calmed, seeing the small desk next to the copper tub she’d cleaned off in. There sat two small earrings, pearls carved into delicate little half moons. She sighed and picked them up, gently placing them into her ears and turning to the tiny mirror hanging on her wall. She regarded her sharp, angular features and the almond shape of her vivid green eyes. Her black hair was cut short, ending where her chin did in a bob, and she had thin pursed lips of light reddish hue. Her bangs draped just above her thin eyebrows and she reached up to feel her earrings again, a gentle smile crawling over her young face.
They were her mother’s and the only piece of her past, before Larktiss, that she had. Including her memories.
Larktiss had explained that an unknown tragedy had befallen them and she believed him; his face took on a genuine sadness when telling the tale that she didn’t think the old man was capable of pretending. He was a terrible liar, besides. She’d have seen any deception immediately. She’d yearned over the years to know. As a child, she thought the memories of her family might return but it was always an emptiness that she couldn’t get past. A darkness too deep to see through. Naull disliked the dark for that reason, even as she was drawn to it - there was a strange comfort in the empty black.
All she’d known was this tower and Larktiss’ company.
And the potent magic he’d taught her as a precocious five year old.
Her apprenticeship had taken fifteen years and that had finished last spring. Though she felt more than ready to make her way in the world, Larktiss resisted her departure. She shook her head in frustration to think about it. Her mentor, a skilled wizard, had said from the beginning that it took immense talent to wield magic and that she was a natural. Spells, incantations, sigils and invocations came easily to Naull; she felt as much as she conjured the magic. She was gifted, he’d said. All her life he’d said this! But still he told her it wasn’t time.
“Wasn’t time my ass,” she said aloud.
She scoffed, throwing the towel away and moving to the small wardrobe at the wall where she kept the few clothes she owned. She opened it, pulling on simple harem pants of a cream color and a long tunic in light green. The springtime had fully come, winter’s last gasp of that frigid season having faded a few weeks before, but the tower was always cold. Even with her fireplace. The long sleeves ended in metal rings that slid over her middle fingers. She picked up her boots and frowned. Still wet.
She placed them back. She pinched her ring finger and thumb together, twisting her left hand, palm facing out and made a small circular motion in front of the wet boots. She intoned the familiar phrase.
“Nuur abuel, vaantan.” The arcane words slipped from her tongue elegantly, rolling from her lips with practiced ease.
A soft golden glow encircled her fingers and Naull gently touched the toe of one of her boots. The glow flowed from her fingers and surrounded the boots, drawing the moisture from them and leaving them dry. The entire process took no more than a few moments; the water, still tinged with dirt, evaporated instantly away. Gods, did she love magic. She smiled, feeling the power fade from her fingers and quickly put her boots on. She took a final look at herself in the mirror. The young mage considered for a long moment, just staring at herself.
Did her mother look like this? Were her eyes the same color? She smiled.
She opened the door and took the stairs two at a time, shifting down quickly in a manner that she knew Larktiss hated. He’d always told her one day she was going to miss a step and break her neck but she was quick on her feet. She never missed a step.
Her master was on the first floor of his wizard’s tower. It was the largest structure by far in the countryside; nearly forty meters tall and looked as if it might be more appropriate in a large city surrounded by other towers. From the top of the tower she could see the hamlets dotting the landscape and could almost make out the little figures of people and herds of animals. She could see Fairbye, though it was far off enough that it was more like a small smear on the horizon. She’d spent long days just watching the scenery; the birds flying above, the travelers passing by like ants and the small groups of livestock milling about.
The large, well maintained stones that made up the tower had been imported from a quarry far to the west, past Volanth. The cost must’ve been considerable but Larktiss claimed in his younger days that he had an unexpected windfall and at the time could afford such luxury. There was something more there but he never seemed interested in discussing his life before settling here. Comments he’d made though, bits of stories and words used, led her to believe that he’d traveled extensively in the far western lands - perhaps as far as the deserts of Zief. The tower was half as wide as it was tall and that left plenty of space for all the trappings one might expect an aged wizard to have:
Observation, which technically wasn’t even a floor as it was open to the sky above, but did hold the small telescope that Larktiss had purchased many years ago. Naull used it to chart the stars and watch travelers passing by.
Larktiss’ personal quarters, which she rarely if ever had a chance to peek into.
Laboratory room, for experimentation and spell development.
Research and library room, filled with so many tomes that Naull knew she’d never read them all. It also held a strange, heated carpet that bore an interesting calligraphy design from the west in Baklunish - she didn’t know the tongue, though, so couldn’t read it.
Apprentice quarters, which only Naull occupied, while the other rooms were left bare. Larktiss didn’t talk about these.
Storage.
Living space, which also included the very meager kitchen area and dining table.
Tower Floor, usually occupied by chairs for guests (though these were exceedingly rare) and a table.
The tower also had two basement levels but only the uppermost was still used. Naull had been down there often and found the dingy, dark and wet place uncomfortable. There was a small shrine to Boccob, Lord of All Magic, as well as a small shrine to Wee Jas, The Witch Goddess. Larktiss was not devout by any means but he believed that any mage who was proud enough not to venerate the gods of magic was asking for an unpleasant end. Naull agreed but found Wee Jas far more interesting than Boccob. He was an unconcerned god, aloof and unbothered by mortal concerns. But Wee Jas?
A powerful woman, said to be death’s lover and guardian, who was skilled in all magics and blessed women who followed her with greater magical might?
Yes, please.
Naull had insisted on a symbol of the goddess she could wear and for her twelfth birthday he’d given her a small bracelet; a fireburst in red, yellow and orange with a crimson skull in the center. Little flecks of ruby dotted the bracelet and Naull had loved the gift. Naull realized she had forgotten it in her drawer as she landed on the first floor, her boots making a sharp clacking noise against the stone. Larktiss was seated on the first floor in a small, simple chair that was usually reserved for guests. The bundled herbs she’d collected were organized to the old mage’s liking and he seemed to be fussing over them as he turned to her. His face showed his disapproval.
“Naull,” his low, raspy voice reminded her of a door that needs oiling. It hissed at his “s” and seemed to linger for a second too long. But she’d grown very fond of hearing him speak.
“Larktiss, I assumed you’d be in the laboratory,” she started but he held up a hand to silence her.
“One of these days, child, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
“And then we can both laugh about it, yes?” She smiled. His stern demeanor never lasted long, she knew, and his annoyance melted away into a soft smile of his own. He shook his head.
“And where,” he asked as he stood, his old bones creaking audibly as he straightened up to his near six foot. “Are you going?” His eyebrows were thick, bushy and grey. As was the short shorn hair on his head and the considerable beard he always had. It stretched down to the top of his chest and while it was always well groomed, Naull hated it. She preferred a clean shaven man - or boy, she supposed. Either would do.
He wore a robe of brown and tan, held at the waist with a fine leather belt. His shoes were simple and he carried a small pack at his side, slung over his thin and bony shoulders. He was a slight man, aged and tanned like his belt but his bright blue eyes were always sparkling. Always youthful. His white walking staff had been placed to the side of the door, which lay somewhat opened. Light spilled in from the three windows on the lower level and Naull could see dust casting about in the air. He leveled her with his intense stare and she nodded.
“Well, you know, I thought I’d pop down to the village and have a nice chat with the farmer’s son. Maybe take Erasmus for a ride and wander the woods.” Her sarcasm was evident and Larktiss was not amused.
“Naull,” he began again and she sighed.
“I’m going on a walk, Larktiss! I’ve gathered the herbs you requested,” she gestured to the table and crossed her arms. “It's only a few more hours until dark and I don’t want to sit around doing nothing.”
“There is no idle time, child.” He said, repeating an often said phrase. She sucked her teeth and nodded.
“I have done my studies for the day; transmutative qualities and how they interact with the other schools of magic. I have read Adaanji’s ruminations on the nature of transmutation’s earliest forms, added notes where I thought appropriate and can I please have a few hours to breathe air that isn’t stale with old books?” She smiled at him. “I rarely ask to leave, as you’ve requested-”, the man’s laugh cut her off.
“Yes, you usually demand - not ask.” He crossed his own arms in a mock gesture but she knew it was light-hearted.
She waited impatiently watching him. She unfolded her arms.
“Larktiss, please. The sun is quickly burning away.”
“Let’s hope not too quickly,” he commented and nodded to her. “Take my tan walking staff and keep aware, girl. You know the woods, yes, I know. But that doesn’t mean your gift won’t attract some sort of beast that might think better to attack you than flee from you.” He shook his head. “Not to mention I have heard tales of brigands along the roads - and worse.”
“No one is coming this close to the tower of an all-powerful wizard, Larktiss Dathiendt.” She bowed at the waist with a grand flourish and he scoffed.
“All-powerful? Hardly,” came the dry response. “Please, child, be careful. And return before the night has settled, yes? And absolutely no transformation romps - do you understand? There are horned owls in the woods.”
Enthusiastically she nodded. Larktiss had said Naull’s parents must’ve been powerful mages themselves, not only because of her obvious talents with magic - oftentimes passed down through blood to children - but also because she was capable of assuming the form of a cat. A rare, strange quirk relegated usually to those gifted in more natural magics; druids or witches. Her cat form was sleek, regal and black as pitch. She’d discovered this as a child and hidden it from her master for several years. She’d scampered off into the village once and lived there for over a week before Larktiss had found her. She’d tried to explain how fun it was to be petted and to be fed and just be as a cat.
He had not been amused at all. She’d apologized and promised to use her gift more maturely.
She hadn’t really, but she’d been better about keeping that from him. Better not to worry him, she thought.
“Yes! Thank you, Master. You are as kind as you are powerful.” She rushed over and gave him a strong hug, surprising the old man. He smiled, though, and wrapped his thin arms around the much smaller girl and nodded. He let go and nodded to the door.
“Before the night has fallen, girl.”
“Before the night has fallen, Larktiss.”
The Town of Lianne, Current Year 575
Readying (Spring) 26, Waterday
As Regdar tightened the saddle on his draft horse, checking the saddlebags and the provisions he’d packed for himself, the sounds of footsteps drew his attention. The noise of Lianne was considerable but years of training and war had honed the old warrior’s hearing - the steady, heavy footsteps of his employer were clear. As was the soft shifting clink of scale mail. He turned, seeing Jozan exiting the last trade goods shop before the city wall and the rolling hills and plains beyond. The journey to New Koratia would be a simple one, taking no more than a week, he expected. So long as they followed the western road and kept their wits about them. Regdar had heard the gossip in taverns around the small town about bandits and even a wyvern sighting. But bored peasants and laborers could spin tall tales, he knew, so he kept his concerns in check.
Regdar finished his preparations, adjusting his helm strap that kept it tight against the side of Butterbean. He hadn’t named the horse; the stableman he’d purchased it from for the journey had but it fit. The color of the horse was a pale tan, save for a single patch of darker brown hair at its forehead. But she was a good enough horse and Regdar would enjoy the ease of the ride. Walking around in his armor, a suit of half-plate that left little of his undertunic exposed, was not something he wanted to do if it could be avoided. He could fight in the armor without issue but with winter gone and spring now fully here, it would be too hot to walk. And it would take twice as long.
He shifted the small, collapsable tent on the back of Butterbean and rubbed the animal's head. Jozan approached his own horse, which Regdar noted the priest hadn’t said was named. Butterbean snuffled Regdar’s gauntleted hand and nibbled for a treat. He rummaged in his pack, pulled out the single apple he had, and let the horse have it.
As the animal crunched happily, Regdar looked over his companion.
Jozan was a shorter man; he stood maybe a bit more than a hand length shorter than Regdar’s six and a half feet, though the priest was considerably less muscled than Regdar. Fifteen long years in service to the Dukes of Belvorvn to the west, distant cousins to the Dukes of Tenh, had honed his body into an instrument of battle. He’d faithfully served Duke Armin Goldbrow, then his son Justinian. Though he neared his middle fifties, the warrior was still heavily built and surprisingly dexterous. Jozan was leaner, likely from a cloistered life - at least Regdar assumed. The priest’s hands didn’t have the look of a laborer or farmer and his face was fair, clean shaven and unmarred by scars. The priest wore a white tabard over his scale mail, the symbol of the sun god Pelor at his right shoulder and the bottom of the tabard that hung between the man’s legs. It was a highly stylized image of a sunburst, an aged man’s face resting at the center. The face had bushy eyebrows and a stern appearance. Though his garments were not lavish by any means, they spoke of comfortable living. At least to the warrior’s eyes.
Regdar prayed to Pelor when he needed to but had little time, or interest, in the kind of devotion required for true service to the god. He respected the gods but had no desire to serve them so closely. Heironeous felt more in line with his life - Prince of Valor, Steward of Honor. He’d sworn no oaths to the god but there was a comfort in his teachings that put the old warrior at ease.
“Though the world be cruel and deadly, valor endures. Valor always, honor always.”
In another life, Regdar thought, perhaps he may have dedicated himself. He shook his head.
Another life.
The heavy mace at Jozan’s side had four vicious looking ridges that Regdar knew could likely split a skull with minimal effort; he’d seen enough battlefield wounds to recognize a deadly weapon when he saw it. If the priest could use it, though, was another thing entirely. He didn’t look like a warrior but the taller man had long ago learned not to judge just on appearances. Jozan adjusted a traveling prayer book at his side, as well as several small pouches at his leather belt. He fussed for a moment and looked up at Regdar with plain brown eyes. His hair was a sandy brown-blonde and the man couldn’t be very far into his thirties. His face had none of the lines that Regdar’s did, nor the deep tan of long hours in the sun.
Regdar’s complexion was an olive hue compared to the younger man’s pale, almost northern skin tone.
“Are you expecting troubles along the road?” Jozan asked in his soft, smooth voice.
“Better to be prepared,” Regdar replied, “than to need something and not have it.”
For a moment Regdar felt a strange sense of embarrassment at the sound of his own voice, so different and grating in comparison. He shook that thought away, furrowing his eyebrows as he did so. The priest nodded at that.
“A warrior’s wisdom.”
“Practical wisdom, father.” Regdar turned to adjust his shield. It was heavy, metal and about four feet long. Rounded at the top, with three jagged teeth at the bottom it was emblazoned with the symbol of Belvorvn; a stylized dragon flying upwards, wings spread out to the edges of the shield and painted a vivid crimson with yellow eyes. A red dragon was a fearsome creature, at least Regdar had heard - having never seen one all he could go off of were the tales of bards and conmen. A good symbol for those in service to a Duke.
“Jozan - please. Outside of my cloister, I am just a priest.” He smiled but Regdar felt it was somewhat forced, as if the man hadn’t much dealing with anyone outside of his church.
Regdar nodded. He slung his bastard sword onto the other side of Butterbean, adjusted his armor and removed the iron spikes at the pauldrons. He wasn’t expecting any close quarters fighting and didn’t want the added weight. He felt heavy enough as it was; armor over leathers over tunic.
“Besides, we are companions on this journey.” Jozan’s voice sounded light and grateful.
“And do you often pay for companionship on your journeys?” Regdar asked, suddenly realizing how that sounded asking a man of the cloth. He shook his head. “Do you often pay for protection on your travels, I mean.”
Jozan smiled. “No. But regardless of pay, it is better to be equals along the road. I’m not interested in being treated in any way other than as I treat you. I’m no merchant, nor noble son.”
“Shame. Pay might be a bit better, I think.” Regdar’s square and scruff-covered jaw twisted up into a smile at his own comment. Jozan raised an eyebrow at Regdar and sighed, smiling as he did so.
“I was warned about you,” he said as he adjusted a small crossbow on his steed. The stock was fine brown stained wood and both the cocking stirrup and flight groove were carved to look like the forearm of a man. As if when fired the crossbow bolt would fly directly from a man’s clenched fist.
“Warned about me, father- Jozan?” Regdar wasn’t sure who the priest might have been talking to. But Lianne was a small town and any number of rumors about an old, tall warrior arrayed in plate and carrying a sword almost four feet long could have been spun in the short time he’d been here. The priest shrugged his shoulders, saying nothing but smiling. He tried to mount his horse, failed, then tried again. After the fourth failure, Regdar cleared his throat.
“Do you, uh, need some help there?” He asked.
Jozan waved his hand at the man dismissively. “No, no. I can manage - I just so rarely ride, you know?” He shifted his leg over the beast’s back and settled down, unsteady for a few moments. Regdar was certain he’d slide off but the man stayed in the saddle.
“Not much riding experience?” Regdar mounted Butterbean easily. He’d been trained as a young man how to ride, care for and even train horses to a small extent. Though he’d had little need for a horse while in service to the Dukes, his time after that had been considerably more transient. A decade between three different mercenary groups, traveling all over the Flanaess, had made him a skilled hand at riding. Casually and in battle. His mind wandered to a memory; a young woman on horseback, her hair caught in the cool fall wind and he caught Jozan waving his hand in front of him.
“Are you alright, Regdar?” The question was soft, almost like the priest was talking to a child. Regdar hardened his face and he saw Jozan purse his lips in response.
“Yes. I’m fine.” The old warrior shook his head to clear the image away, running a calloused hand through his very short hair. He kept himself groomed much of the time and had learned through example that a mercenary shouldn’t keep their hair long. For fear of lice and a strong grip pulling you to the ground. Besides, it hid the grey that had overtaken him in the last decade. At least, he thought it did.
“Well, good,” Jozan said with a little uncertainty. He cleared his throat. “I’m ready, I believe.”
The priest looked awkward on the back of his horse and Regdar could tell the animal felt the same; it shifted back and forth, looking very uneasy about its inexperienced rider.
The man would be fine though, thought Regdar.
“Let’s get a move on, then.” Regdar shifted the reins in his hands and snapped them slightly, squeezing Butterbean’s sides with purpose but not harshly. A horse responded best to respect, not domination - especially one that was already broken and wasn’t meant for war. As the steed shifted forward, clopping along the cobblestone and dirt path towards the long road to New Koratia, Regdar gave the animal an affectionate pat on the side of its neck.
“Nice and easy, girl. Nice and easy.”
The previous evening had seen heavy rain; not unexpected for the season but not welcome, as far as Regdar was concerned. It made the dirt roads of Lianne soupy and messy. The horses’ hooves kicked up mud and several times Regdar had to stop, allowing others to pass by, before they could move forward. Otherwise they’d splatter the townsfolk in mud and worse. Lianne had the same issues other towns did, the warrior mused; population had grown and so had the mess of travelers and animals.
The two men passed a stone tower - Regdar knew it belonged to a noble, though he wasn’t sure who exactly. It looked out of place but if someone had the wealth and desire to put a tower up, he wouldn’t judge it. They reached the west gate of Lianne. It was a palisade, thick wooden logs stacked next to each other and sealed with earth or daub. Regdar couldn’t be certain. But it looked sturdy enough and so long as there were no large forces washing over the town, it would be fine. A small guard tower, little more than a twenty foot wooden box, sat at either side of the gate. It was a place for a single man to stand and look out, which benefited from the area around the place being mostly hilly plains. Here and there were some groups of trees but few were thick enough to carry genuine threats. Or conceal them. The gate was open. The two men, towns guard, stood watch with crossbows slung over their shoulders, halberds leaning against the side. One was casually digging around in his nose for something Regdar could only guess at and the other noticed their approach, casually waving them off.
Regdar recognized the man who waved, holding his own hand up and signaling. Hemin; a drinker, from Regdar’s experience in one of the inns of Lianne.
“Off for more coin, eh, Regdar?” The man’s voice was sharp, nasally but he was a good sort. The warrior shrugged his shoulders and called up in response.
“No excitement here! Might as well take my chances with the bandits.” He chuckled, as did the man in the tower. Looking back, Regdar saw that Jozan’s face was less amused but he smiled and nodded.
“Careful, old man,” the nose-picking guard joined in. “Wyvern’ll see you both and be happy for the two meals you’re bringing it.” He laughed loudly, obnoxiously. Regdar didn’t know that man but he nodded to him as they passed, not looking back as he replied.
“Don’t worry. If we spot one, we’ll ride hard back to Lianne. I’m sure you could use the excitement.”
Regdar vaguely heard the “he damn well better not” response and smirked. Lianne was a good little town, with good little people. He wasn’t sad to go, and the coin would be nice, but for a few breaths the old warrior wondered what it might be like to stay in one place. He’d moved so much since - he smiled.
Different time. Different man. Click for Chapter 2
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